


Survive With Me

by Omnidrew



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Horror, M/M, Multi, Psychological Horror, Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-12 16:50:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2117439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnidrew/pseuds/Omnidrew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson has been living in Maxwell's insanity for two years now. He has everything he could need... except someone to talk to. All that changes when Wes appears, chased by spiders and as mute as ever. Together they make survival easier, and learn that even they are not alone in this wilderness. But when Maxwell intervenes to shake things up, everything Wilson has striven for is turned upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scientific Insanity

**Author's Note:**

> Tagged this as teen just for the imagery and themes in this story. I hope you enjoy it!

There were certain advantages to being a scientist.

One of them was not strength.

Wilson chopped at the tree for the tenth time. It still did not fall, though there wasn't much left where he'd been hitting it with his ax. He swung again. And again. And again. Finally, the tree seemed to be about ready to fall. Two more swings and it was creaking. And finally down it went, and the resounding crash shook the ground. He smiled and chopped the tree into logs, which took another thousand swings. Once he finished, he stuffed the logs into his bag. He'd need them for the campfire.

And speaking of which, the brilliant, saving light of the sun was disappearing over the horizon. He looked up at the sky, wiping sweat from his face. Judging by how long days were, he supposed winter would be coming soon. That was not something he looked forward to, but no matter. He'd survived two winters already, he could survive another.

 

 

He followed the path back to his campsite. He'd placed it in, quite literally, the middle of nowhere so that he wouldn't be bothered by spiders or anything else that liked to try to murder him. If he wanted something from those monsters, he'd go off and find them himself.

Of course that was simply the ideal.

His arms ached. Chopping trees was not fun, but it was necessary. He'd certainly lost some weight while being out in this wilderness, and it was terribly lonely. That was something no amount of talking to Chester or even his pig allies could fix. He needed an intelligent mind, one like his own.  
But that wasn't going to change anytime soon. He would probably die here. Alone. What a morbid thought.

 

The sun had nearly gone down by the time he'd reached his campsite. He had walls surrounding the camp, save for one 'door' which was not much more than a stone he could push out the way with even his weak arms. After removing his door and replacing it, he found Chester resting by the fire and his pig friends eating from the supplies of food he had stored away. He'd discovered a better way to preserve food than simply salting it to death. The salt was killing him and his pig friends slowly, and this new ice box was exactly what he needed.

 

He sat by the fire, grabbing a piece of cooked meat as he saw the last glimpse of the sun.

And then the noises started.

 

The spiders were a ways away from his encampment, but they liked to explore. They came from the forests and their lairs. They smelled the food, they heard the chatter of himself and his allies, and they wanted to feast on his corpse.

At least that's what it felt like. He'd been told some time ago, when he was a child, that spiders feared him more than he feared them. Nowadays, though, he didn't know if he believed that.

"More food!" one of this pigs, whom Wilson had named Maurice, stated with a smile. He stood and stomped over to the chest, retrieving himself another slab. Wilson sighed, finishing his meal.

 

Though the fire burned brightly, illuminating the entirety of the camp, he could see eyes peering at him from the darkness. He glared at them, but said nothing. What was there to say? Go away? They rarely listened. He merely had to keep tabs on his sanity. He remembered what had happened when he started talking to things that didn't exist.  
He shuddered from the memory of the night monster biting him relentlessly after the hands extinguished his campfire. He'd almost died then, back in the early days of this 'adventure', before he'd even had the proper ability to even start a campfire.

 

With a sigh, he saw as Chester and his pig friends retired for the evening. Each found a place beside the fire, but Wilson couldn't bring himself to sleep. There was a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach, that if he slept, he might as well already be dead. He watched the fire flicker ominously, sending shadows across his group of three pigs. They looked like hulking masses as they slept, though most definitely less violent. If he were to bring them with him to chop down trees, they'd punch the poor things down with their bare hands.

His eyes fell back to the flames. It was calming, like staring into the sun and knowing that as long as it burned, he would be safe.  
He threw a log from his bag onto the fire and watched the tendrils of concentrated heat lick the log into charcoal.  
And then he saw movement.

Wilson stood slowly, utterly defenseless. He didn't carry his spear with him, and thus didn't have it. It was in his chest, which was some ways away. He didn't want to leave it with Chester. The dog chest might hurt himself.

 

A flash of darkness. His heart dropped and stomach went cold. Were those the hands again, come to take away the only defense he had against the night monster? No, no, Wilson, he thought to himself, you musn't think like that. But he slowly retrieved his spear nonetheless and slowly walked back to his campfire. He sat.

 

Wilson saw it again, and spun around to see a shadow on the ground in the shape of a serpent. He lowered the spear. It was just Mr. Skitts, as harmless as ever. Of course, that didn't mean his friends wouldn't be showing up soon enough. This was a precursor to the levels of insanity he wasn't quite willing to deal with at the moment.

Mr. Skitts slithered about, keeping his distance. He seemed to say, "You look down, Wilson." And Wilson sat, feeding into the desire to say something to someone (or in this case, something).

"Hello," he spoke, voice cracked from disuse. When was the last time he'd spoken outright? He was all gestures nowadays, and the occasional comment to his pig allies. Mr. Skitts seemed impatient.

"Hello," he said again, voice clearing, "How are you?" There was no response. He wasn't expecting one.

"I'm fine," Wilson answered, and he hummed. What to discuss?

"I thought things were going... better," he said, "But I suppose not, if I'm seeing you again. I guess the Hands will be back, soon. I've tried to keep sane, really. I've kept up my scientific research, you see. I've found these... machine bits I suppose, in the wilderness. I don't know what they do, but I've been collecting them. I don't even know how to put them together. But I've studied them; they seem otherworldly.

"You know what I want the most? My notebooks. They were filled with knowledge from that... that man, Maxwell. You know him, don't you? The tall one?" Mr. Skitts made no movement to show that he understood.

"Well, the notion stands. I knew so much, and it’s all locked up here," he tapped his forehead, "I remember it, sure, but what can I do with it without materials? And most of it I can't... fully realize I suppose." He sighed, despondent. Talking had only done him a disservice-- depression fell upon him like a weight.

Mr Skitts was as silent as ever. Wilson reached out to the shadow on the ground, and he slithered away into the darkness. Alone, Wilson turned back to the fire.

 

And that's when he heard it.

 

Above the crackling of the fire, he heard panting and footsteps and the sound of spiders. He looked at the sky, unable to tell what time it could have possibly been. Was it time for the spiders to come around, look upon his fortress and wonder how to enter, or was someone or something bringing them to him? He grabbed his spear and fished around in one of the chests for his logsuit. Upon finding it, he donned it quickly. The footsteps were nearing, but seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. Wilson wanted to say something, he really did, but fear paralyzed his throat quite effectively. The pigs were fast asleep, snoring. Chester was, as well. To leave the safety of his haven in the dead of night was a death sentence, wasn't it? To face the night monster again, an unseen and untouchable enemy, was not in his plans.

But if it was someone, and that someone died because he'd been too afraid to look outside for five seconds, he would never forgive himself.

And so he created a torch out of the materials in his chest and walked over to the blocked doorway. The footsteps were almost upon his haven. With a breath, he pushed at the rock until it allowed him to see outside into the darkness.

He waved the torch, looking for any signs of movement. He saw something, a spider running past? And just as he was about to force the rock back into its position, a face startled him. He screamed, falling back and dropping his torch. A pale face, eyes wide with fear stood there, mouth moving but no sound coming out. Wilson didn't move. A spider's leg pierced the man's shoulder, and blood splattered on the rocks and on Wilson's face. It made him flinch, and he could move again. He scrambled up and stabbed at the spider, killing it quickly. He shoved the rock as hard as he could and pulled the man into his encampment, scrambling for his torch and waving it at the spiders.

"Get out of here!" he screamed (mostly for show, really) and they scurried back in fear of the fire.

Yes, of course spiders feared humans, but when they were as big as these monsters...

 

He pulled the rock back into its original position, and looked at the man he'd just rescued.

He was as silent as ever, holding his bleeding arm with a kind of gratitude in his eyes.

"Come on," Wilson spoke, gesturing for the man to follow him.

 

 

Near the fire, Wilson took scraps of fabric from an old vest he'd made and patched up the oozing wound.

"Are you alright?" he asked in the crackling silence. The man had said nothing, and he remained in his silence. Wilson tried again.

"Its very frightening, I know, to be attacked by those monsters. They're... horrifying." He shuddered, recalling the first time he'd been attacked by a spider. He hadn't been expecting to find such large arachnids, and the thing was upon him in seconds. No matter how fast he ran, the thing caught up, and it took beating the thing's face in with his fist to get it to stop. He shuddered again and finished patching the man up. He looked at his handiwork; he was no doctor, but the man's shoulder seemed to be alright. He probably wouldn't have much movement in it for awhile, but it'd heal.

Hopefully.

"So what's your name?" Wilson asked, trying to coax a response out of him, excitement burning in his stomach. The man gestured to himself.

"Yes," Wilson said, a smile on his face, "You." The man seemed puzzled. He gestured in the air. Wilson frowned.

"What?" The man gestured again and a sick realization hit him.

"You can't speak, can you?" The man shook his head, looking guilty. Wilson swallowed.

He was back to square one, then. But he tried to smile against the pit of despair that ate away at him, because things weren't so bad, right? He had his pig friends, still, and now someone could at least listen to him. But he missed the mellifluous, nuanced sounds of human voices. He missed the sounds of people. And though he'd taken to being alone even before all of this had occurred, he missed civilization and, above all, humanity.

"Alright." But the man seemed to be near tears. He clasped his hands together, mouthing words Wilson couldn't hear.

"What?" he asked. The man begged more in silence. Wilson thought.

"Oh... oh you think... you think I'm going to hurt you?" The fear in the man's eyes was apparent. Wilson shook his head.

"No, no. I couldn't do that. It's alright if you can't talk. I'm merely... disappointed." The man seemed to calm a bit, wiping at his eyes with a gloved hand. They sat in silence for a minute. The man pulled some reeds from the bag on his back-- where had he gotten those?-- and began to spell letters with them. First a W, like Wilson's own name. He watched with interest as the man spelled out an E and an S, leaving them on the ground and looking up at Wilson.

"Wes?" he asked. The man nodded, a small smile on his pale face. Wilson smiled, too.

"Well, I have food on hand if you're hungry." Wes' face displayed his need for food, and Wilson looked at his thin frame. When was the last time the poor man had eaten? Wilson stood and walked over to the chest, fishing out another slab of meat. He walked back over and handed the delicious item to his new friend. Wes devoured it in seconds.

"Are there any more..." Wilson began, but he stopped himself. He didn't want to know, now. He had a long night ahead of him, and he didn't need to ponder such things. Wes' face held his question, and Wilson shook his head.

"Never mind. You should rest. You'll heal faster if you sleep." That was another thing he was told as a child, but this one seemed, if not plausible, than at least ideal.  
Wes made to rest his head on the stone beneath them, but Wilson shook his head.

"I have a tent that you can use." He pointed to Wilson, confusion in his eyes. Wilson's face was grim.

"I'm not sleeping tonight." With some hesitation, the silent man made his way over to the tent and stepped inside. For him, time would pass in mere seconds. For Wilson, the night would last forever.

But that was nothing new.


	2. Chapter 2

Wes awoke to sunlight streaming through the material of the tent. He stretched tentatively, testing out his shoulder. It hurt a lot less than before, but he still couldn't move it too much. He feared he might never be able to use it properly again...   
His stomach growled painfully. It was as if he could never stay full, not for one second. He crawled out the tent and found the pigs, who'd been asleep the night before, milling about. His caretaker was nowhere to be found.   
He'd never gotten his name, had he?   
Nonetheless, Wes began to look around the camp one man had made for himself. He looked at the chests stuffed with objects Wes couldn't hope to have made on his own. The walls were made of stacked cut stone, and the boulder at the front of the camp was moved. Perhaps his caretaker had left?   
He walked over to the chest he knew had food in it and took the smallest piece he could find. He didn't want to infringe on his rights, after all. And since he couldn't talk, he'd probably be expelled from this man's home. He didn't want to presume too much.   
He sat by the glowing ashes that used to be a roaring fire and ate slowly, savoring what he'd merely gobbled the night before. Eating so quickly had caused him awful stomach pains, but to have something in his stomach at all was worth every bit of pain he had to endure.   
Once he'd finished the morsel, he yearned for more, but he kept his place by the dying charcoal. He thought about what he'd heard as he lay there, trying to sleep.   
He'd heard sobs.   
Perhaps this man needed more help than Wes did.   
He looked around the camp, and found everything to be so humdrum and boring. He remembered what he'd done the first time he'd experienced the crushing blows to his 'supposed' sanity (because Wes was sure, on some level, that he was never really sane to begin with): he'd picked flowers. And it had done him wonders. He nervously peeked outside the camp; no spiders were about, it was daytime. But fear still gripped him. He looked at the pigs, and wondered if he could sign for one of them to follow him. He wasn't sure how this man had gotten the pigs to remain where they were with no homes to stay in, but... if only he could speak!   
Wes stood from his place and walked over to the doorway. He peeked out again; nothing but rock and more rock, and a forest in the distance. Perhaps he could find flowers there, and maybe he'd be able to pull his weight if he was allowed to stay.   
He took a few steps out. Nothing. He took more, still nothing. He smiled tentatively and began his trek to the distant forest, following the road that led there. 

 

  
Wilson slammed the axe into the tree, and the axe broke in half. The blade fell from the tree, falling to the floor and narrowly chopping off his foot. He cursed.   
"Stupid, stupid," he muttered to himself. He took out his second axe from the bag-- he had a feeling the last one would be breaking today, and continued to hack at the tree. He sighed. He'd been in this wilderness for so long, now, he forgot what life was like before, almost. He recalled working on that damned machine. He recalled his family, but only distantly. A mother who he ignored, a father who demanded so much more out of him than simple science. He'd wanted his son to become a carpenter. Wilson gave a wry smile. Well, look what he was doing now!   
Did he have any sisters? Wilson thought about this a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow and taking a break from chopping the looming tree. No, he couldn't recall one. But names popped up in his head, or rather the fragments of them. But alas, they were probably all dead or have forgotten about him. Wilson was, in effect, on his own.   
He saw his shadow 'friends' out the corner of his eye. He'd been right, Mr. Skitts had only been the beginning. Now the Crawling Horror, as he so aptly named it, and his companion the Terrorbeak were following him around, watching and waiting. They just wanted him to lose it all, and once he did, they'd attack. And he'd die. Out here. Alone. He’d been full of morbid thoughts recently…

 

Wilson took a breath. Now was not the time to think of such things. He swung the axe at the tree again, and again, and again, in such a rhythm that it sounded almost like music.   
When was the last time he'd heard music, proper music?   
He shuddered, the feeling of his throat closing from the tears that were soon to follow. Goodness, he was stuck in this wilderness with no way of returning home, and he was going to die here-!   
The Terrorbeak took a swipe at him, but it passed through his body as if it didn't exist. And Wilson was sure that, in reality, they weren't there. It was a figment of his imagination. But no amount of scientific reasoning or logical approach would will them away. His mind was creating these figments, perhaps, but they were as real as anything in this otherworld. 

 

Wilson swung the axe again, as hard as he could, and his body jarred with the impact.   
The tears began to fall.   
He willed them away, but they did not obey him. They fell as they pleased, and soon his nose was stuffed and his eyes were puffy and even more sunken in than they had been before. He pulled the axe from the tree. It stood tall and firm-- he hadn't even gone halfway through the trunk. Wilson turned from the tree and walked away, throat burning from the force of unshed tears. This was not alright, he needed to return to the camp before he lost it completely. At least there he'd have support.   
But something told him that his pig friends could do nothing to help him against the horrors his mind created. 

 

When Wilson returned to his lovely haven, he found Wes there, smiling at him.   
"What?" he asked warily. Was this man some sort of criminal before he'd been sent to his hell here with Wilson? Was he going to try to kill him?   
He pulled something out from behind his back and Wilson felt his heart calm. It was a garland in his hands, strung a bit big for Wes' head.   
"You've made this... for me?" he asked hesitantly. Wes smiled wider and handed the headpiece to Wilson, who looked at it with some reluctance. This served no purpose for him, but it was clear the man was trying to be kind. He gave a smile.   
"Thank you," he said as he donned it. He felt a bit silly, but not at all unhappy, and so he kept it on.   
Wes' demeanor had certainly changed from the night before. He was smiling, and his pale face had become somewhat less sallow. His hair wasn't necessarily combed, but was at least a bit neater. Wilson could only imagined what he, himself looked like.   
And then, Wes pointed to him. Wilson frowned.   
"What?" He seemed to be saying that a lot lately. Wes pointed to himself and mouthed something. Wilson sighed.   
"I don't understand." Wes took a step closer and pointed to himself. He mouthed again, and Wilson caught the word.   
'Wes'. Wilson nodded. And the man pointed to him.   
Wilson felt like an idiot.   
"My name! Oh, I can't believe I... I forgot, I'm sorry. My name is Wilson." Wes nodded. And then he fished through his bag and handed him the reeds from the night before. Wilson frowned.   
"Why are you giving these to me?" Wes' face fell. He mimed something, something Wilson couldn't understand. He shook his head.   
"How about we stick to yes or no questions?" he muttered, taking the reeds. Wes nodded. Wilson sighed.   
"Do you know what to do with these?" Wes hesitantly shook his head, before smiling as if he'd gotten an idea and made to write in the air, as if he were holding a pen.   
"You can't turn reeds into pencils," Wilson spoke, but a realization dawned on him. Perhaps he couldn't use them to make pencils, but the paper they wrote on. A smile fell upon his face, and he looked at Wes.   
"You're a genius!" Wes blinked, confusion on his face. Wilson shook his head.   
"Just... go do something. I am a scientist, this is what I do." And he bounded over to the science machine he'd built, imagining all that could be done! He distantly saw Wes walk some ways behind him, and then sit on the ground. 

 

That night, Wilson found his hallucinations less tangible, and though the sounds of the night frightened him, it was --dare he say it?-- a blessing that Wes had found his way to his camp. Had he not, Wilson could have done something stupid with the despair he'd held.   
Now things weren't looking so awful.   
Wes sat beside him, and he looked pretty content, himself. This was only the second night with the silent man, yet things were already so much better than they had been before.   
And Wilson looked down from the fire, munching on a cooked carrot with a sharpened twig made to look like a pencil in his hands, dipping it every so often in the berry-ink. 

 

It was several sunsets later-- Wilson wasn't counting, when he'd run out of both paper and wood. After his experience with the hallucinations, he didn't want to go back out there. He considered taking his pig allies, and in fact he did once, but during the trek to the forest he turned back. He was afraid.   
Wes was waving at him from where the chests were as Wilson looked at the dying flames. He had nothing to re-create the fire, and Wes seemed to notice that as he pointed to the now-empty wood chest. He sighed.   
"Check Chester," but he knew the poor chest had nothing flammable. He'd planted all his pinecones, and the mushrooms he had stored away were not good fuel.   
And when Wes walked up to him, arms crossed, Wilson growled.   
"What?" he snapped. He hadn't slept in ages, and he was really not in the mood. Wes pointed to the fire, nonetheless, and pointed at Wilson. He felt something in him snap like a twig. In one swift motion, he stood.   
"You want a fire?" he asked, fury in his eyes, "Well I'm not going out there! You go!" And he slammed the axe from his bag into the mime's hands. Wes looked terrified, and stood there for a long moment. Wilson kept his glare, and Wes soon stepped from the camp of his own accord. Wilson returned to his seat and looked at the glowing pit.   
That was unreasonable, he thought to himself. He's let such emotion rule him; could a simple abandonment in the woods destroy his scientific mind?   
Yes was the quiet answer from the recesses of his brain. He pulled his knees to his body, locked his arms around them, and rested his head.   
When he awoke again, it was dark and there was no sign of Wes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really meant to update this sooner. Sorry! So for the wait, I'll upload two chapters!

Wilson grabbed the torches he had locked away in a chest. He had five, each ready to burn for at least an hour. That gave him time, he thought to himself.  
The night air was cool, telling him that winter was on its way. He'd put it at fall, now, but with no deciduous trees to observe, he could only guess. But now, he was worried. In this cool air, Wes would burn more energy trying to get back. He'd get hungry faster. He'd die out there, with no fire to keep warm with or to keep the spiders away.  
Or perhaps the man simply ran off with his axe. Wilson shook his head. No, he'd simply been angry and Wes understood that... right? It was hard to tell what Wes understood.  
His pig friends refused to follow along in this night. They'd grown accustomed to the warmth of the fire, and even though Wilson tried to explain that to follow him would mean more fire, they still refused.  
And so Wilson, spear in hand, stepped outside his comfortable haven and looked out into the night. Eyes stared back at him. He saw the shadows of the Crawling Horror. He took a breath and stepped further out, finding the path and following it. Now that he'd somewhat conquered his fear, there was the task of finding Wes. 

 

  
Wes sat huddled against a tree, a small fire burning in front of him. He'd created it from the resources he'd found, but he was hopelessly lost. He tried to retrace his footsteps, he tried to find the path, but all he found was more and more trees. He looked for stumps, but they were everywhere from trees that had been cut down before. And some were just holes in the ground from when Wilson most likely dug them up. He was shaking in the cold, and Wilson's axe had broken. He was defenseless and, above all, he was alone.  
He'd found a ring of flowers surrounding this... wooden thing, and with the idea of creating another garland, he'd picked them. They sat in his bag and felt heavy, oppressing the atmosphere around him. The wooden thing sat in front of him. He considered using it to increase the flames, but he decided against it. If he found Wilson...  
But he wouldn't, would he? The man would think his absence a blessing. 'Its good to be rid of that annoying mime,' he thought the scientist would say, and Wes curled up tighter. He was so, so useless.  
Eyes glared at him from the darkness. He shivered again.  
And then he heard footsteps.  
Wes felt sweat appear on his hands. What if it was Wilson? What if it was a monster? He remained where he was, but he didn't hide the flames. It'd keep the monsters at bay, at least.  
A twig snapped. More footsteps. Wes hid the wooden thing behind him, in case that was incentive for anything to murder him.  
"I didn't make this!" came a deep, booming voice. From the trees came a tall, hefty man holding quite a large bag on his back. He had a grand moustache, and held a torch in his hands.  
"Little man?" he said, frowning. Wes felt fear strike his heart. What if this behemoth of a man decided to kill him for his things?  
"Little man make fire?" the man asked. Wes nodded, shaking. The man let out a bellow of a laugh.  
"Wonderful! I was looking for fire. Share?" Wes blinked. Share? He nodded, happy that this man was not out to kill him. The man sat by the flames, pulling out some twigs and putting them on the flames. They leaped up that much higher.  
"Name is Wolfgang. Little man's name?" Wes swallowed and gestured his name, as he'd done with Wilson. Wolfgang tilted his head.  
"No understand. Speak, little man." Wes shook his head and held his throat. Wolfgang sighed.  
"Little man can't speak." Wes nodded. Wolfgang shrugged and pulled from his bag what looked like a sack.  
"Anything happen, little man, wake Wolfgang. I will destroy what wishes to mess with us!" And he laid down, asleep in minutes.  
The eyes were still there, watching them.  
Wes shivered. 

 

Morning came at the slowest pace Wes had ever seen. His new friend awoke with the dawn, and Wes watched as the fire died.  
"Well, little man, was nice. I must find pieces now." He turned to Wolfgang, who had an axe in hand. It was made of gold. Wes frowned and Wolfgang smiled, pulling out a box and a golden ring.  
"Found these. Is more out there. I will find." And he replaced them in his bag. Wes noticed something...  
The wooden thing he'd found looked very similar. He was about to fish it from his bag when a distant call reached his ears.  
"Wes?"  
It was Wilson's voice.  
Wes stood, a smile on his face.  
"What is that?" Wolfgang asked as Wes followed the noise, gesturing for Wolfgang to follow him. Soon the two were far from the campfire, following the sound of footsteps and the calls.  
"Wes?"  
"Little man, is your name?" Wes nodded, happy to have found his… friend again.  
"We are here!" came the booming voice from behind him. Wes jumped and spun around to Wolfgang, who gave him a great smile.  
"Make things easier." Footsteps sounded, twigs snapped, and soon Wilson was before them, hair a wreck and eyes dark. Still, the garland was on his head and there was a smile on his face.  
"Wes!" and then he seemed to notice the man behind him, "Who's this?" The man puffed out his chest.  
"Name is Wolfgang! Found little man by fire, we shared." Wilson nodded.  
"It's nice to meet you. My name is Wilson." Wes pulled the wooden thing from his bag and handed it to Wilson, who looked at it with confusion.  
"What's this?"  
"Another thing!" Wolfgang said, a smile on his large face. He held a large hand out for it. Wilson did not let it go.  
"What thing?" he asked, eyes wary. To Wes it seemed the man was more in control of his faculties than the day before, as the bags underneath his eyes had lessened considerably.  
"Things," Wolfgang began, "To leave place. Go home." Wilson frowned now.  
"We all want to go home. To give this to you alone would be... unfair." Wolfgang seemed perturbed, but he smiled.  
"Well give to Wolfgang. Come back with pieces. Leave together."  
"No," Wilson said, "I don't trust you for a person I've just met. You won't come back. Leave them with me." Wolfgang's face fell into anger.  
"Why? I give word, will return!" Wilson's frown deepened.  
"I already said why. I don't trust people I just met with my future!" Wes waved for them to stop, but neither paid attention.  
"Little man has not even found one. Wes found it. It belong to Wes."  
"Wes gave it to me. It's mine, and I'm keeping it."  
"Won't go anywhere without other pieces!"  
"If this is the only chance I have of leaving, I'll keep it and look for others myself." Wes stomped on the ground and waved his arms again. He needed this to stop before they tried to kill each other.  
"Stupid man!"  
"I am a scientist, and I can speak in full sentences!"  
"Scientist man very stupid!"  
"It's my thing and I'm keeping it, and if you want to find a way out of here, you'll leave the rest with me, who can figure out how it works instead of you who'd just hit them and hope they do something!" Wes opened his mouth and attempted to speak properly. Nothing came out, as he expected. He tried again. Nothing.  
He didn't even know why he bothered anymore.  
Wes snatched the wooden thing from Wilson's hands, and now the attention was on him. He pointed to himself and held the wooden thing against his chest.  
'Mine' he mouthed, though he was sure neither man understood.  
Wolfgang shifted the bag on his back.  
"Find own things!" and he stomped off into the wilderness. Wes sighed shakily, loosening his grip on the wooden thing in his arms. Wilson seemed to curse under his breath as he began the trek back home. Wes followed. 

 

 

Wilson was infuriated. How dare that brute of a man doom them all like this? He was positive that these objects that were scattered about the world were a test given to them by Maxwell, who wanted to watch them squirm. But, of course, that brute of a man didn't know that. He'd taken his objects, whatever they were, and left, and now Wilson's hopes were dashed.  
Sure he had this wooden… thing, but Wes had a pretty solid grip on that and he wasn't sure he'd even get to look at it.  
But at least Wes was alright. Wilson was no longer alone. But the fact that there were others on this island that Maxwell had trapped was, in and of itself, a message. There could be so many on this island-- Wilson had no idea how large it really was. 

 

They reached the camp. Wilson pushed the boulder out the way and the two entered.  
"Food!" came a distinctly pig voice. They ran up to him and looked at him with eager eyes. Had they eaten through their supplies already?  
When they saw that Wilson was not going to feed them, they frowned and went back to milling about. Wes put down the thing in his hands, and went fishing through his bag.  
"I'm sorry," Wilson said after a moment as Wes continued to search, "For everything. For yelling at you and..." But he pulled out a pile of berries and gave Wilson a smile.  
"Food!" came a pig voice, and they swarmed Wes, who, if he could, would have screamed. Wilson laughed. When they left, there were few berries left in Wes' hands. He offered them to Wilson.  
"They're yours," he said. Wes walked over to the fire, shouldering his bag and carrying the wooden thing, and began to roast them. Wilson sat opposite him.  
"Its kind of funny," Wilson spoke, "How quickly we are to become so... so horribly monstrous when we're afraid and trying to survive.” Wes nodded once, finishing the roasted berries and dumping the contents of his bag.  
Wilson froze.  
There were dark petals amongst meat and other things on the ground. He felt everything collapse onto him, a crushing sort of depression.  
And Wes had been walking around with those things for how long?  
"Wes, don't touch those petals," he spoke, standing and walking over to the mess on the ground. Wes looked confused.  
"Doesn't it feel... odd... when you're around them?" Wes paused a moment before nodding.  
"They're... they're not right, i can't explain it." And he scooped them up. Just as he did, his vision swam and he staggered. These things were evil.  
He dumped them into the pit and they caught fire. They burned quickly, and the oppressive feeling was gone. He looked at Wes, who looked at him with confusion.  
"You know," he began, "How you feel when you're around spiders? That kind of... that kind of feeling that you're going to lose your mind?" Wes nodded.  
"These flowers are similar. I tried to study them. I took a good number of them and crafted them into what you get once you defeat one of those hallucinations. Nightmare fuel. It can be useful, but the effects that it does to your mind is not worth it." Wes looked confused, but Wilson wasn't about to explain it again. He sat where he'd been sitting before as Wes began to cook up the meat. Wilson thought.  
"We haven't really been working together," he said after a time, "I've done what must be done to survive. And then I sent you out, alone and still injured. Imagine what could happen to one of us if we found something dangerous. We need to work together, and with the pigmen, if they listen..." Wes smiled. Wilson did, too.  
There was something about knowing that you were in a mess with someone that made it that much more exciting.  
Together, they could make it out of this wilderness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second Chapter of my two-chapter upload!

"I think I know where you found the reeds," Wilson spoke one day, hitting the tall boulder with his pickaxe. They were quite a ways away from the camp. Wes stood a few steps away from him, chopping at a tree. The pigmen, who'd been coerced into going by food, were punching trees down.   
"You found them in the swamps." He looked to his friend to see him confused.   
"The one with the tentacle." And then came the nod. Wilson sighed. He needed more papyrus to write his knowledge on, and there were other things papyrus was good for. He continued to mine the rock until it was in a bunch of smaller pieces. He grabbed the flint and the gold that came from the very center of the boulder, and pocketed some of the bigger rocks. They could be used to continue to build his stone fortress. His arms ached, and he could only imagine that Wes' arms felt the same. Not to mention his shoulder. He was surprised the man could even swing the axe. That's why they'd brought the pigs; they were far stronger and could do much more in less time. Plus, the more the merrier.   
The trees falling created a beautiful sound. Wes finished knocking his tree down, and three more were felled by the pigs. They were chopped up into logs as Wilson hit another stone until it, too, was pulverized. Soon they carried far too much, and had to return home. Even the pigs held some logs, because their bags and even Chester were filled to the brim.   
As Wilson walked, he noticed the tracks of what appeared to be a beefalo. And sure enough, when he looked into the distance he saw one, a lone one, milling about. He smiled.  
"Look," he whispered to Wes, who looked towards the Beefalo. He looked nervous.  
"We're running low on food, and those things can feed us for a long time." He dumped the logs he held in his arms onto the ground, the pigs followed suit. He took off his bag and donned his logsuit. Wes did the same, though with more hesitation. And soon they were following the unsuspecting beefalo, which seemed unaware of its fate.  
Wilson attacked first.  
His spear stuck into the side of the large creature, and he'd just pulled it out as its head smacked into him. He went flying. The pigs attacked, he could hear them distantly. Wilson cradled his head-- was he bleeding?—and tried to stand. A helpful hand grabbed his arm. He stood, and looked at Wes who had concern in his eyes.  
"I'm alright," Wilson muttered, and grabbed his spear. He joined the pigs and stabbed again at the beefalo. Wes joined him. And in minutes, the beefalo was dead, and they were carving slabs of meat from its body.   
They returned to where they'd dropped their things, and Wilson loaded up one of the pigs with the wood he'd been carrying and held the meat, himself. If he'd given the pigs the meat, they would have simply eaten it and their work would have been for naught.  
His head merely ached at the thought of it.

 

Soon they were back at camp, and Wilson was feeling awful. His head felt as if he’d been in some kind of crash, and he was dizzy and nauseous. Even looking at the meat in his hands was making him sick.   
And so the second he'd reached the fire pit, he dumped the contents of his arms onto the floor and ran out of the camp as fast as his legs could carry him, finding a good patch of grass nearby to puke onto.   
He was almost certain he had a concussion. His hair was matted in the back where he'd probably knocked his head against a rock. And if was serious, he might just die.  
But at least he wouldn't be alone. He stood straight and sighed. Perhaps running head-first into battle with a beefalo was not a good idea. They had food now, yes, but he needed to be more careful. The prospect of food always made him make rash decisions. This one might kill him, now.  
One would think he was stupid.  
Wilson sighed.  
He made his way back to the camp. Wes was keeping the pigs away from the food, but his eyes were filled with worry.  
Most likely for himself, Wilson thought, snorting, but even that action aggravated the migraine he now sported. He held his head as the pain intensified of its own accord. And it receded just as mysteriously. When he opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) he found Wes' eyes on him, still worry and concern present. Wilson sat near the pit and started a fire. The sun was going down, and having the fire blazing before the cool night air set in was always a good idea.   
His head was pounding. He grit his teeth against the pain, but it did nothing to lessen it. What did people with concussions do again?  
A finger tapped his shoulder, and he flinched. Wes sat beside him, pointing to his head. Wilson didn't answer-- he didn't want to talk right now, not with this amount of pain coming from his head. He closed his eyes and grit his teeth again. It did little to stop the pain, but it certainly helped him bear it.  
Wes tapped his shoulder again. He opened his eyes and glared at the mime, who pointed to his head again.  
"Concussion," was all Wilson could say. The noise made his head ache more, as he'd suspected it would. And when he touched the back of his head, he felt more sticky blood.  
He'd need to do something about that eventually.  
Wes stood and went rummaging through a chest, returning with scraps of fabric. Wilson looked up at the man, who gestured to his head with a longer piece of fabric. Wilson sighed and turned.   
Using a bit of the water he had stored away someplace, Wes cleaned out the bloody cut and wrapped it up. Wilson's already messy hair was now spiked in several areas, but he didn't really care. His head was pounding even more now than it had been before.  
He was monumentally tired. Was that a symptom of a concussion? He didn't know, or really care. He stood from the fire.  
"Thank you," he said quietly so as not to worsen his migraine, and he moved to the second tent he'd set up.

 

 

It was rare that both Wes and Wilson slept at the same time. One of them always stayed awake to watch the fire. Wilson had told him once that he'd slept and woke up near death, the night monster practically gnawing one of his legs off.   
Wes hadn't had so many encounters with this monster; he was already terrified of the dark so he was rare to ever experience a night without fire. But he hadn't been here as long as Wilson had. He'd said he'd been stuck here for years, now, next summer would be his third. Wes felt like he'd been here forever, but he knew it couldn't have even been a year yet. He hadn't even experienced a winter...  
And though Wes tried to keep his eyes open, he felt sleep calling to him. He tried to keep up his fears and his worries, but the crackling of the fire was telling him to sleep. A few minutes rest wouldn't do him any harm, after all. Even the eyes he'd seen before were gone. That was a good sign, wasn't it?  
And so he laid his head on the ground and closed his eyes.  
And he awoke to the sound of spiders.  
Wes jumped up. The fire was still going, but just barely. He put another log on the fire and looked at his surroundings. The pigs and Chester were asleep. The walls were sound; they hadn't mysteriously shifted or anything like that.   
And then he saw a black shape climb right over one of the walls.  
Wes could have screamed.  
He ran to the tents, pushing open the flap. Wilson was asleep, as he'd expected, but when he shook the man's shoulder violently, he did not stir. Wes felt his heart sink.  
What if he was...?  
He shook the man again as hard as he could, but Wilson didn't move. He sat back a moment, terror in his eyes. What could he do now?  
He put an ear to the man's chest. It rose and there was the faint sound of a heartbeat, but it was so quiet that he could have missed it.   
Wes panicked. He had to do something!  
But the sound of the pigs awakening and fighting the spiders caught his attention. He couldn't sit here and do nothing, and if Wilson wasn't going to wake up...  
He left the tent and ran over to the chests. He grabbed a spear and turned to face the spiders. Many had been killed by the pigs, but there were still many and the pigs were being overcome. Wes hesitated before moving closer to the fray, stabbing at a spider. He'd missed, but he attracted the attention of quite a few, and soon he was under attack. He stabbed violently, wishing he was stronger. The spiders snapped at him, and he tried not to feel as if this was going to be his last night alive. He somehow dodged the spider’s sharp legs, and he evaded their sharp teeth.   
And soon, the ones around him were dead.   
But the pigs were still fighting, and he continued in his efforts to protect his home.

 

When the sun came up, all was silent.

 

 

 

Wilson's eyes snapped open. He'd had a horrible nightmare, no doubt caused by his head wound. He stretched, finding his migraine to be less than it had been the night before. He touched his makeshift bandages; they were bloody, but dry. It'd be hell to take them off, but at least he'd stopped bleeding.   
He laid there a moment longer, taking solace in the silence. Usually the pigs would be grunting about something, but there was only silence.  
And what was once comforting to Wilson suddenly frightened him. Was something wrong? Where were his pig allies? Where was Wes?  
He scurried from the tent and stood straight, eyesight going black a moment and vertigo striking him. But when it cleared, he was faced with his lovely campsite. It was a wreck.  
Silk was everywhere. Pigs lay dead on the ground. The doorway was cleared of the boulder that usually blocked it, and there was no sign of Wes.   
He was frozen.  
The spiders attacked? But why? He'd been there for years and they'd never bothered him, not outright at least. Perhaps they were avenging their fallen allies? But he didn't think they were so intelligent to feel hatred or revenge. But that wasn't the most pressing issue, he thought, the fact was that his system was destroyed and he needed to find Wes.  
They'd need to leave here now that the spiders had figured a way in. He could only assume they made it over the walls somehow, but Wilson thought them too heavy to climb so high with those thin legs...  
He went over to his chests. One was smashed, a prone form of Maurice lying beside it, or some other pig ally. Wilson didn't know, nor did he care.  
On the ground was the eyebone, eye closed. Wilson sighed. He'd see Chester again, just... not now. And it was tough to realize, because it one of the first odd objects he'd found on this island.   
Chester had helped him through many a tough time. He pocketed it.  
His bag and its contents laid strewn about. He grabbed what he could. Some cooked beefalo meat was still in the icebox. He grabbed it, as well as a few flint, some grass, and twigs. A spear, axe, and pickaxe followed suit. Logs were the last thing he stuffed into his bag. And with a second thought, he grabbed his hammer. With a few strong hits, everything he owned that was science related was destroyed. He snatched the papyrus he'd written on and took the ingredients to make his machines with him. Gold nuggets were fairly hard to find, after all.  
And finally, he grabbed the wooden object. It was too big for his bag, but it was light enough to carry in his arms.

 

And with that, he left his haven. With some hesitation, Wilson looked back.   
He followed the road to the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for taking a look!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell makes an apperance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some wonderful soul told me that I uploaded a duplicate chapter! Silly me! :D Thank you RandomPerson. I really appreciated that!

Wilson wandered the forest. Wes was gone, and he hadn't the slightest idea where the mime would go after such an attack. He considered briefly that the spiders took him, but spiders didn't take prisoners. They killed and ate, and that's all they ever did.  
He'd made it rather far into the forest, into an area he'd never gotten the chance to explore. There was always enough trees springing up that he didn't need to venture too deep. The deepest he'd gone was when he was searching for Wes. But even then it only took a few hours to reach the fringe. He'd been walking now for almost the entire day. He didn't stop to chop down trees, or to pick grass or even carrots. He didn't try to kill any rabbits. He thought only of two things, of getting as far away as he could from his haven, and of finding Wes.  
He mulled over the things he knew about the mime. He enjoyed picking flowers when things were going south... Suddenly he thought back to the garland the mime had made for him. He must have lost it when he fell. It was spoiling, anyway, but he certainly appreciated it. It kept his spirits up even in the dark.  
Wes liked to keep people happy, too. He did little things around the haven quite often, such as organize the things in Wilson's chests or scout out carrots and berries for a snack. He'd been too injured to do much more than that, after all. He probably still was.  
But the mime had managed to fight off a legion of spiders. He must have either used one arm, or paced himself. How long did injuries such as his take to heal?  
He'd never asked how it was, had he?  
He hadn't paid much attention to Wes at all, really, not until recently. He became a fixture in his camp. He did these nice things and Wilson barely paid attention...  
But now was not the time for sentiment or guilt, he reminded himself. He had to look at facts. Wes survived the attack, otherwise his body would have remained as the bodies of the pigs were. And if Wes survived, that meant he left of his own accord.  
Perhaps he was going to return. Wilson slapped his forehead. He'd been an idiot! He could have simply waited for Wes to return instead of jumping to conclusions and going out to look for him, himself!  
He was really lacking common sense, nowadays.  
Still, waiting for the man would have been a death sentence. The spiders would have returned for them that night, and they wouldn't have survived.  
But he'd checked the meadow that was right outside the forest. No Wes. The man could have gone to get supplies. He could have gone to get pigs. He could have gone insane and Wilson wouldn't have known!  
He looked up. Judging by the level of light he saw, he was sure the sun was going down. Quickly he started a campfire away from any hanging branches, and sat before it. Night fell.

 

The air was nearly freezing. Wilson groaned. Why didn't he bring his vests or hats? He shuffled closer to the fire. But now that he wasn't fixed anywhere, he could find more of those things. Perhaps then he could escape this world. He didn't want to die here. He wanted his home again, his books...  
And in the silence, he heard a distant, quiet laughter. Wilson lifted his head. Was he hearing things? He'd only heard two voices since being stranded here, Maxwell's and that Wolf-fellow, whatever his name was. He had to have been hearing things...  
The laugh sounded again. It sounded familiar, but if it wasn't Wolf-fellow, then it must have been...  
"How have you been?" came a dark voice from behind him, and Wilson flew a foot in the air. Drawing his axe, he held it before the apparition. Maxwell's head floated in front of him, a grand smile on his large face.  
"Why do I even bother to ask?" Maxwell spoke with a chuckle, "I've seen your struggles, but you've been around for a while. I'm quite proud of you." Wilson didn't lower the axe.  
"What... what do you want?" he asked, cursing his voice for failing him so. Maxwell seemed to shrug, though he had no shoulders.  
"You've been at this for a while now. Some of the others have already moved on."  
"You mean they're dead," Wilson grit out, feeling the fringes of his sanity begin to unravel. His migraine doubled in intensity. Maxwell chuckled again.  
"No, I don't, actually. You've been here for, ah, two years now. You're quite bad at this, don't you agree?" Wilson took a step closer, threatening the floating head with his axe.  
"I'm alive! I'm alive against all that you've tried to throw at me! I am not bad at this at all!"  
"Please, spare me your screams. I thought I'd give you a helpful push. You are my favorite, you know." He was confused now.  
"Helpful push? What are you talking about?" Maxwell seemed smug.  
"Well that thing you've got there," and he nodded to the wooden thing which sat on the grassy ground, "Its a piece of a... more simplified version of that machine you created."  
"What?"  
"I thought I'd make it easier for the others. They're not so smart as to do what you've done. So I created these. Get all the parts and you... move on." His voice was devious. Wilson was tempted to throw his axe at that damned face.  
"Point is," Maxwell continued, "You're losing. Quite badly, might I add? The last person here was Wes, thus far at least, and even he's done more than you. He found the thing, didn't he?" Wilson decided not to respond, settling with a dark glare. Maxwell was unperturbed.  
"There's more than one set, of course, but the point is that you can't just sit around and wait to die like an idiot. So I gave those spiders a little nudge, to show you that I mean business." Wilson felt his stomach drop, and rage filled him.  
"You've ruined everything!" he screamed. Maxwell chuckled again.  
"You humans, so complacent when you get into a routine! Well if I've damned you only now, what do you call me trapping you here?" he paused a moment, "My point is that if you want to get out of here, you ought to start playing by my rules instead of your own."  
"You never told me a thing!" Wilson spoke, knuckles going white as he gripped the axe, "You simply said something about finding food!" Maxwell chuckled again.  
"True, but I thought you smarter than that. I had a proper motive for showing you what I did, did I not? Logic, scientist, would suggest that there was a motive for bringing you here."  
"Because you're sick," Wilson retorted, arms itching to swing the axe, "Because you think you can just mess with people's lives! Because you want to see me lose my mind!"  
"Of course," Maxwell responded, "But there's always another side to it. Think of it like... a game." Wilson let all restraint go.  
"A game!? This is my life! You've ruined my life, damn it! You've destroyed my sanity, my memories, my thoughts… all with that information you fed me-"  
"You asked for it, Wilson," Maxwell said, an admonishing tone to his voice, "I gave you nothing you didn't ask for. And you had to pay the consequences."  
"That is utter shit and you know it. What about the others? Did they ask for this as well?" Maxwell sighed.  
"Of course they did. But let me relay this quickly. Your friend, Wes, is a fool. He is only ruining things for you, and if I were you, I wouldn't remain in his company." Wilson stopped. Wes?  
"The man is a mime, he is weak, and he is injured, and given enough time he will succumb to the wilderness of his own accord. If you continue to try to save him, you will die." Wilson shivered at the thought of death and shook his head.  
"Wes saved my life! I won't abandon him simply because you, of all people, told me to!" Maxwell seemed to shrug again.  
"That is your decision. But think. What can this man do for you in terms of survival? Because that is what this is about, Wilson, survival. He picks daisies while you chop wood and kill. That meat he had when he returned, he found. How could you think any different? And did he even help you fight that Beefalo?" Wilson took pause. He wanted to say yes, but he didn't really see the man help, did he?  
"And on top of that, he is a coward. Are you so sure that he defeated those spiders, or did he run away in fear?" Wilson said nothing. Maxwell looked smug again.  
"Think about it." The head vanished into the night and Wilson stood there, axe in hand, thinking. 

 

Wilson awoke to a dead campfire and silent surroundings. He hadn't recalled falling asleep, after all he'd slept enough last night; yet there he was, back against a tree and head bowed.  
He stood. The action caused him a bit of dizziness and his migraine became almost splitting, but soon enough both feelings passed. He took his bag in hand, and the wooden thing, and left his camp site.  
And only then did he pause. Should he go looking for Wes? Maxwell was a lying, sick demon. He probably lied about everything, and how could Wilson know? That man had a point when he said that everything he relayed to Wilson had an ulterior motive. And the only thing that Wilson could think of was that Maxwell wanted to separate them. And of course he'd want that, after all if they worked together, they had a chance of finding a way out. There was simply no chance that he'd say it out of 'favoritism' for Wilson, himself, or even a sort of genuine concern.  
Thoughts set straight, Wilson continued to wander through the forest, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary.

 

It had been a week, and no sign of Wes. Wilson was beginning to wish he'd remained where he was. And he did consider returning several times, but he imagined that if Wes had gone back, he wouldn't have stayed. Returning now would be a waste of time.  
So Wilson wandered aimlessly for a little while, following patches of flowers during the day and trying to keep warm at night. He'd taken to collecting resources again, and chopped down a few trees a day. If he came across a rock, he mined it for flint. He caught and killed rabbits and birds. He did what was necessary to survive, as he'd done back when Maxwell first trapped him in this wilderness.  
His beard began to grow, and he let it. It was useful for keeping warm, even if he looked awful with it, but that was the price of survival.  
But one thing he couldn't stop thinking about was the wooden thing he still carried around. He hadn't found any other pieces for it. But from studying it, he noticed that it was, in essence, every similar to the machine he'd built forever ago. Simpler, indeed, he thought bitterly. And there was no guarantee it would do as Maxwell suggested it would. For all he knew, the others built the machine and simply went deeper into the spiraling hell Maxwell trapped them in. If he completed it, he may never find his way home.  
But an old feeling rose within him. He felt as if he had to try; he'd spent so many nights fearing things, but he was a scientist! He'd done so many experiments that, had they gone wrong, would have killed him! He'd been on the brink of death before, the only difference being that long ago, it was a controlled chaos. Now, things had certainly changed, but that didn't mean Wilson had to sit around and wait to die!  
And so Wilson changed his goals. He was searching for Wes, the pieces to Maxwell's machine, and he was trying not to die. It seemed better than aimlessly wandering.  
And a few days later, he found another piece to the puzzle.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time skips ahead. Wilson slowly loses his mind in the wilderness without anything to keep him grounded.

It was deep into what appeared to be the endless winter. Wilson's beard had grown considerably, and though its weight kept him warm, he still needed his vest and hat. He'd made them both on his journeys, and he'd never stayed in an area for more than two days. He camped out beside spider dens, just daring them to attack him. And he did so as if they were Maxwell, himself, as if to say he was no longer afraid.

His nights had become nearly unbearable, even with the return of Chester some seven days after his death. He refused to sleep some nights, staring out at the eyes that watched him with hunger. Only once did the hands return for his fire, but he wouldn't allow it. He'd simply had to stand on them, and they receded. He made it a kind of game that night, running and jumping on the hands as they strove for his fire.

And in the morning, he was tired, laughing, and quite a bit insane.

Some days were worse than others. Some days, the shadow monsters watched him like hawks, and he tried in vain to attack them before they surprised him. It never worked, but they kept further back only to come in close again. And other days he laughed for no reason as he slaughtered a rabbit or bird. And certain days were so dark that Wilson thought about throwing himself off the edge of the island.

If only to test the physics of it.

He remade his science machine repeatedly and researched more ways to defeat his enemies and his prey. He never created a base; it'd take too long to build and destroy in the space of a day, and small campfires attracted less attention from spiders. They also protected less, but at night Wilson always donned his logsuit. And he had plenty on hand to protect himself.  
Maxwell didn't reappear to him, but Wilson could hear his voice on the air, taunting and laughing. He growled each time he heard the man's voice; was he laughing at his lack of progress? Of course he was. And it always led Wilson to do something not quite sane. He'd attacked a herd of beefalo with little hesitation, and they chased him for miles as he laughed and laughed. He ran them right through a field of traps he'd created, and each and every one of them fell.

He'd eaten a lot that night.

He fought the tentacle monsters, at least five, and killed them with their own weapon. He'd killed so many pigs, he'd lost count.  
And he remained alone, save for Chester, who followed him faithfully through even the most insane of his plots.

But this particular night was colder than the rest. Wilson lit two fires while he sat between, toasting his hands over each flame. He loved his scientist gloves, as he called them, but they were thin. He needed proper ones.  
The Crawling Horror, which seemed to have grown in size, sat some ways away looking rather harmless. Was this another night devoted to defeating his hallucinations? Wilson snorted. If it was, he was ready. He had his spear, his favorite weapon to use against them. The darts rarely worked, but that was alright. He liked setting the spiders aflame with them, anyway.  
He hadn't seen Mr. Skittz in a while, he thought solemnly. He laughed, the sound empty of mirth. And it echoed back to him, sounding just a little demonic. Or perhaps that was Maxwell...

The night was otherwise silent. Wilson began to think. He'd seen tracks that were not his own following him as he doubled back on his trail. Something was following him-- he wasn't stupid. And they were doing a good job of hiding their tracks, but he had a keen eye. He'd even seen the tracks of the hounds they had.  
But now was not the time to do anything about them. He was going to attack first, of course, but judging by the evidence, they were still planning a way to kill him. He snorted again. He'd murder them, whoever they were, and--

Wilson looked out beyond the fires of his camp and saw movement. He drew his spear and stood on shaking legs. There were two tracks, and this was one monster, wasn't it?  
The creature was walking towards him.  
  
"Little man?" came a familiar voice, and Wilson frowned. He knew who this was...  
  
"Oh. You," Wolfgang said as he stepped further into the light. The man sported a vest much like Wilson's own, and his bag was overflowing with resources. And in his hands he carried a box and a ring, two objects Wilson needed...  
  
"What do you want?" Wilson spoke, cautious as ever. This man was much bigger than he was, but he could take him down. He'd grown stronger, himself...  
"Scientist man still collecting?" Wolfgang said with a measure of disgust. Wilson nodded.  
  
"You are as well, I presume," he said. Wolfgang sat far away from him, but still close to the fire.  
  
"Of course! I want to leave, little man. So do you." Wilson's eyes narrowed.  
  
"Went back. Little man and you gone." Wilson nodded.  
  
"There was an attack." Wolfgang shrugged.  
  
"Scientist man don't look so good. Work together?" He paused a moment before nodding. He then placed the spear by his side.  
  
"Only found ring and box," Wolfgang spoke as he pulled out a roll of straw, "You found?" Wilson looked down at his bag.  
  
"I only have the wooden platform," he lied looking up from his bag. Wolfgang laughed heartily.  
  
"Should have listened! But if willing to listen now, find more together. Where little man?" Wilson bit back the proper answer and said,  
"He's busy right now. He'll be back later." Wolfgang shrugged again.  
  
"Alright. Wake if anything happens." Wilson nodded once as the man laid his head on the straw roll. In minutes, he was snoring. Wilson watched him for a time, seeing his large chest rise and fall repeatedly. He felt no camaraderie towards him, no drive to help him or see him happy.  
  
Wilson thought only of himself.  
  
He abandoned the spear for his golden axe, which shimmered with the light of the fire. Wilson smiled.  
  
He crept to the sleeping form and held the axe above his neck. He paused. There was no going back from what he was about to do. It was wrong, unethical, evil... And a part of him screamed to stop.  
  
But this is what survival pushed him to.  
  
Raising the axe, he brought it down with terrifying strength. The snow turned red.  
  
And Maxwell laughed.

 

\--

 

This world was dying. Or it seemed to be so from Wilson's point of view. He'd returned to his old home, and found it overrun by spiders. He really only went to see if he could salvage anything useful, but there was nothing. He also went back to find out when those things began to follow him. Of course, his trail was so erratic that it was nearly impossible to find when they'd started tracking him, but it didn't matter. He had his reasons for going back.

  
Wilson hummed to himself a childhood song, one he didn't remember the name of, as Chester followed close behind, barking every so often. The eyebone was in Wilson's hand, and he twirled it. He had two bags on his back, one his and one Wolfgang's.

He'd done a few experiments on the man's corpse. He'd covered the decapitated body in nightmare fuel and watched as merely touching it made his body disintegrate. Prolonged exposure seemed to do much damage to human tissues, and he tried to get a closer look, but the nightmare fuel had destroyed all evidence of there ever being a body.  
He looked around his campsite. A spider queen's lair was in the center, surrounded by rather large webs and dens. He didn't want to be here when night fell, but he was sure he could take them if he so chose.

  
All his chests were smashed, their contents thrown across the ground. He saw a sleeping spider in the corner where the tents once were. He considered attacking the spider, but he stayed where he was. No need to infuriate them. Not yet.

He crept over to his ice box, where he was sure he left something behind. The thing was knocked over, the door ajar. The inside was empty, as he expected.  
Perhaps whatever was tracking him came here first and took his food and other important resources. He was rather glad he destroyed his science things. He didn't want to imagine what they could have done with all of what he'd learned...

He looked at the old fire pit. He remembered Wes well, as if he'd seen the mime only yesterday. For a time, Wilson imagined what his voice might have sounded like. He thought it'd be an optimistic sound, as he'd always been smiling-  
Wilson stopped himself. Now was not the time to reminisce.  
With a torch in hand, Wilson walked to the entrance of his home. He threw the torch at the largest spider mound and scurried off as they burned to death.

 

\--

 

It was the dead of night and Wilson was running. He'd been half asleep, thinking of the sky and the eyes that never left him and he'd been attacked. He had no torch, nothing to light up the night. He considered making one as he ran, but that would have taken a kind of dexterity that Wilson didn't have in this cold. On his back he carried the emergency bag he'd prepared in case something like this were to happen.

Behind him, he heard a fierce snarl. His hallucinations were chasing him again. He had no weapon save the hammer in his hands, and that did nothing against such creatures. He ran blind, and suddenly he heard the sounds of the night monster.  
  
He wanted to scream, but a part of his brain told him that he deserved this fate. He deserved to die this way, alone and frightened.  
He dodged another as he felt something bite him, its teeth sinking into his flesh.  
  
He saw a fire in the distance. An abandoned camp fire? Or was someone there?  
  
He dove into the clearing, the night monster vanishing off his trail. He heard the crawling horror swipe at him, but he dodged, looking into the flames of the campfire and willing them to leave.  
  
"I'm sane!" he screamed at it, but it only attacked again. Its shadowy appendage caught him in the arm. He was bleeding badly.  
  
"I'm sane!" he insisted, the feeling that he was going to die hitting him so forcefully that he nearly puked. But he didn't have time for that.  
  
The crawling horror only moved faster. He dodged again, though he felt himself slow. He'd bleed to death at this rate!  
  
On the floor there sat a gold spear, and he snatched it. Facing his enemy, he savagely attacked, stabbing at the hallucination until all that was left was nightmare fuel and a slowly rising sun.  
  
He collapsed, nursing his wounded arm and the bite mark in his side. It punctured his vest... The night monster was certainly a formidable opponent. Wilson looked around the camp. It was empty save for the spear. There was no blood, no indication of where its owner could be...  
  
Wilson sat there, watching the sun rise, and soon enough he returned to his old camp, left alone by those who tracked him and his hallucinations alike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been awhile since I actually looked at / read this story. It could definitely use work, and I'm not sure it entirely makes sense, at this point! But I'm uploading what I have and I can always fix it later.


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